The word of the night is muthafucka. How did I know I had a totem hero. Chet Baker. My god. Horn and toad and pause and 'I don't even want to fucking sing tonight.' Oh, there's a marriage. I guess in order to be hitched, I will sing, I will sing, I will sing. Oh, America. Yawp. Yawp. Yawp. I am not even planning a trip across you. Just to Chicago. I will see what I can. I embibe with a lawful bawp. Those tinkling bells. We all want to go apeshit. We all want to be sheltered in your arms. Oh, America! Tonight, I am lonely and shouldn't be. 9/11. You laugh now don't you New York. A return to the surly. A return to the non-care.
You are out tonight in middile Carolina. Do you know it's love? What about love and marriage and all those kinds of things. Apparently I've got a lot of changing to do. I chased the albino doe across the woods for farther. Would have killed and brought her head to your door if it would make a difference. I stand in deference. What of it. Piss off and go back home. You voted that way and me this. No resolve.
I am out tonight among the people. Among the late-night barbaric yawpers. I am out and out ready for your love to return. I am drunk... so what of it. I will return. I will return. I will make secret tepees under a western sun. My trousers already roll. My headaches. I hear songs. I want more. I want you. Pleasure. Luxury. Light and breeze.
I am looking for the silver lining. It's bronze. Sweet valentine. Chet. It's over. What more can I do?
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